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Thomas Hood
Along the Woodford road there comes a noise
Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding's neat post-chaise
Struggles along, drawn by a pair of bays,
With Reverend Mr. Crow and six small boys,
Who ever and anon declare their joys
With trumping horns and juvenile huzzas,
At going home to spend their Christmas days,
And changing learning's pains for pleasure's toys.
Six weeks elapse, and down the Woodford way
A heavy coach drags six more heavy souls,
But no glad urchins shout, no trumpets bray,
The carriage makes a halt, the gate-bell tolls,
And little boys walk in as dull and mum
As six new scholars to the Deaf and Dumb!
What heartache -- ne'er a hill!
Inexorable, vapid, vague and chill
The drear sand-levels drain my spirit low.
With one poor word they tell me all they know;
Whereat their stupid tongues, to tease my pain,
Do drawl it o'er again and o'er again.
They hurt my heart with griefs I cannot name:
Always the same, the same.
Nature hath no surprise,
No ambuscade of beauty 'gainst mine eyes
From brake or lurking dell or deep defile;
No humors, frolic forms -- this mile, that mile;
No rich reserves or happy-valley hopes
Beyond the bend of roads, the distant slopes.
Her fancy fails, her wild is all run tame:
Ever the same, the same.
DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw,
That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw
For beauteous, hapless Mary:
But Scot to Scot ne’er met so hot,
Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
Who should be the Faculty’s Dean, Sir.
This Hal for genius, wit and lore,
Among the first was number’d;
But pious Bob, ’mid learning’s store,
Commandment the tenth remember’d:
Yet simple Bob the victory got,
And wan his heart’s desire,
Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,
Tho’ the devil piss in the fire.
A witless gallant a young wench that woo'd
(Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move),
Entreated me, as e'er I wish'd his good,
To write him but one sonnet to his love;
When I, as fast as e'er my pen could trot,
Pour'd out what first from quick invention came,
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,
Much like his wit that was to use the same;
But with my verses he his mistress won,
Which doted on the dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to Heav'n for phrase I run,
And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure;
Yet by my froth this fool his love obtains,
And I lose you for all my love and pains.
For Sunday's play he never makes excuse,
But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice.
Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak,
Yet he gives maidens many a burning cheek;
For none can pass him but his witless grace
Of bawdry brings the blushes in her face.
As vulgar as the dirt he treads upon
He calls his cows or drives his horses on;
He knows the lamest cow and strokes her side
And often tries to mount her back and ride,
And takes her tail at night in idle play,
And makes her drag him homeward all the way.
He knows of nothing but the football match,
And where hens lay, and when the duck will hatch.
Her final Summer was it --
And yet We guessed it not --
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded Her, We thought
A further force of life
Developed from within --
When Death lit all the shortness up
It made the hurry plain --
We wondered at our blindness
When nothing was to see
But Her Carrara Guide post --
At Our Stupidity --
When duller than our dullness
The Busy Darling lay --
So busy was she -- finishing --
So leisurely -- were We --
Begone, ye critics, and restrain your spite,
Codrus writes on, and will for ever write.
The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone,
As clocks run fastest when most lead is on;
What though no bees around your cradle flew,
Nor on your lips distill'd the golden dew,
Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead
A swarm of drones that buzz'd about your head.
When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre,
Attentive blocks stand round you and admire.
Wit pass'd through thee no longer is the same,
As meat digested takes a different name,
But sense must sure thy safest plunder be,
Since no reprisals can be made on thee.
Thus thou may'st rise, and in thy daring flight